Sing of hazel, sing of blooms, sing of windows, sing of rooms

Every time I walk into my room
the little hinged door in the wall
begins to swing.
Cut there to access the switch
on the water heater, it should not
speak so.

Skreek, skreek, skreek,
each time I step through my door,
calling me, reminding me the house
has shifted, tilted again sideways slightly.
I, too, run downhill.
I run downhill, sink underfoot,
flow underroot. Loam is a combination
of sand and clay and vegetable boneware.
I don't know which I am:
the grit, the glue or the soft, crumbling decay,
or the worm
that eats and draws the conduit for air
and water and leaves the night
soil that best feeds borning seeds.

Skreek, skreek, skreek,
time to go, time to stay, time to go.
I fill boxes with things to take, things to store.
I break off my root hairs, leaving
calcerous threads burrowed deep
under the foundation. No longer my home.
I take more than I leave, but my voice will
continue to reverberate here long after every trace
of me and mine has been painted over and
swept away.

The camas will bloom next year
without me, and the oak leaves fall with
no one to sing for them.
I did not merely occupy this space.
I lived here in every way.
I sang. I wept. I sorrowed.
I birthed. I bled.
These walls heard all my voices.

I planted myself in this place,
twined myself in the fiber of the trees, fell
with the flower seeds and the rattling stalks
of dried grass. Long after I go, an oak leaf
shall still fall, curled in a way that resembles
my ear, and the slope by the tree that
held the swing will echo the curve of my hip and
if you stand by the door, you will see my shadow
nearly there, around the corner of the shed and
my voice will still ring when you walk
into my room.

Skreek, skreek, skreek.
I was here, I was here, I am here.

2006

Thoughts and Comments

I performed this piece at the May Poetry Slam Finals in Eugene.

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